Underneath a perversely-Four-Thirty-AM pall,
Two sorrowfully frigid hours before boarding call,
On a Jan pre-morning,
I find myself fenced in.
Walls of wire ring fiercely this place,
Interrupted intermittently by these infernal locked gates,
And no, Madam, they will not yield before eight.
At this time of distress and Frost, I spy,
Two roads diverged in a yellow smog,
And sorry I had to travel both,
And find twice the wall had no give for,
This poor citizen just recently turned rogue.
My colony steels itself for siege
So superbly well at times like these,
That I wish we were living rather more dangerously.
For that blessed-and-barbed slit-of-a-gap
Betwixt the wires I tumbled out of, madcap,
Snagged the collar of my coat
Snapped at the mess of my hair,
And for all the likeness to a castle-and-moat,
And for all that I lacked my jousting mare,
This is home, not a warring citadel, remember?
And could I perhaps leave it not-dismembered?
You’re supposed to bless a journey to its very end,
But I would argue it a much more useful trend,
To invoke your gods thus: I pray,
That you, fellow traveller, find your way –
Not home, dull wit,
But out of it.
Written by Swathi Gangadharan
Image by Hitashi Arora